


Battlefield Manner

by Sadistrix



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Clothed Sex, Coming In Pants, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22314238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadistrix/pseuds/Sadistrix
Summary: Someone had tried to warn him about this assignment, but trying to remember past the oppressive heat of Reaper caging him in - the scent of fire and blood so thick on the air he can taste it - is proving to be more difficult than Baptiste could have anticipated.
Relationships: Jean-Baptiste Augustin/Reaper | Gabriel Reyes
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23
Collections: Unofficial FFA Unanon Collection





	Battlefield Manner

**Author's Note:**

> Set vaguely during Baptiste's earlier days with Talon, before he knows what a shit show he's gotten himself into.

Standing up to his full height, Reaper is huge. There’s no good-natured ease to his posture like the way Mauga holds himself out of the field, just hard edges and a sharper mask dripping with what Baptiste worries is his own blood. He takes a step forward and Baptiste gives ground out of base instinct.

When his back hits the alley wall, Reaper laughs.

He presses himself up into Baptiste’s space, one clawed glove colliding with the wall beside his head with a force that shakes rubble loose onto them both. Even through the mask Baptiste can hear his breathing, smell the blood on his breath. “Y-you’re not dead then,” he says, fumbling with the biotics packed against his hip. He glances down at the shredded body armor across Reaper’s abdomen, the burnt leather of his coat. It’s all leaking a toxic-looking smoke.

As Baptiste watches, they start melting. Creeping together with twitchy, irregular movements like something out of a bad horror movie.

Someone had tried to warn him about this assignment, but trying to remember past the oppressive heat of Reaper caging him in - the scent of fire and blood so thick on the air he can taste it - is proving to be more difficult than Baptiste could have anticipated. 

“This is Talon’s best?” Reaper snorts dismissively. His voice is deeper than Baptiste remembers, rough in a way that has to hurt, but he seems remarkably lucid for someone who should have been left for dead only moments ago. The blood dripping from the deep V of his mask splatters against Baptiste’s scarf, staining the Talon insignia between them, but that doesn’t seem to bother him either. He flicks one of Baptiste’s locs back with a disdainful air, the back edge of his claw ghosting over Baptiste’s forehead with the motion. “Some fucking _kid_ -”

Baptiste swallows hard but doesn’t move. He definitely doesn’t protest. Reaper crowds him further up against the wall and Baptiste is forced to part his legs to accommodate the sheer bulk of Reaper’s thigh pressing into him. “They tell you I _needed_ you?” he snarls. His hand comes up again, and this time he rips the comms device from Baptiste’s face. The tactical overlay disappears from his vision along with all sound from the other teams. Too late to call for backup now. “ _Time to go be a hero?_ ”

Reaper takes a deep, rattling breath that puts unpleasant images of shattered ribs into the forefront of Baptiste’s mind, but then a heavy silence descends over the two of them. A quiet like one before a storm, untouched by the sounds of far off sirens and artillery fire. No battlefield could have prepared him for this. No amount of crossfire had ever rattled Baptiste’s nerves so thoroughly.

“Your support didn’t make it,” Baptiste tries to explain while still trying to get the kit off his belt with one hand. Normally he’d try to crack a joke, establish rapport, but even his own voice is rough. “I was the only-”

An unpleasant crunch marks the demise of his comms. Reaper lets the pieces fall beside them without a second thought. “Shut. Up.” He stops Baptiste from continuing to struggle with his gear, gloved hand huge and heavy atop his. The thick leather is hot even though Baptiste’s own gloves. 

He laughs nervously without meaning to let the sound escape. He’s in so far over his head.

The claw on Reaper’s thumb brushes against the inside of his hip bone, catching on the fabric of his gear until it pulls and Baptiste is suddenly, uncomfortably aware that at some point between being pinned to the wall and sized up beneath Reaper’s odd, menacing intensity his dick has decided to take an interest in the proceedings. And in his hurry to get geared-up for the field, he’d forgone anything that might have disguised that predicament from the zombified mercenary holding him tighter than his last few one-night-stands.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. The heel of Reaper’s hand presses more thoroughly into his crotch a moment later, pressure just this side of painful. Baptiste is starting to think he’s not the type to do _anything_ gently. Then the mask tips almost imperceptibly, angling like Reaper’s found a target that interests him after all. 

“Hmmf,” Reaper grumbles and then he crushes Baptiste to the wall, grip replaced with the tight clench of his thighs and -

 _Oh_.

Too well conditioned to fight through pain to do anything but follow the impulse presented to him, if Baptiste had to guess. Though if this isn’t what Reaper usually gets off on - adrenaline-fueled near(?) death experiences, terrifying his own goddamn medics, some exhibitionist urge to get off in a bombed-out alleyway; Baptiste sure as fuck doesn’t know - there’s no mistaking how hard he is when he moves against Baptiste to bring their cocks together.

The bulk of the tactical gear between them doesn’t seem to be a deterrent either. He’s still breathing too heavily, forcing air from Baptiste’s lungs every time his chest expands, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it that wasn’t there before. When Baptiste tilts his hips for a better angle, Reaper groans. His claws drag down the brick beside them, ripping into the wall with more force than Baptiste thinks he wants to be on the receiving end of.

He shoves a hand between them before Reaper can, trying to push the ammo belts out of the way. There are too many straps and buckles for him to work out how to get Reaper’s pants open, but awkwardly cupping his hand around the hard bulge of his cock seems to work just fine. Finesse, at least, doesn’t seem to be a priority.

Reaper’s mask crashes down against the back of his own arm, hips driving against Baptiste’s with an unspoken urge.

There’s a jagged piece of the bricks digging into his spine even though the bulletproof fabric at the small of his back, but that barely registers. The rush of blood to his own cock when Reaper _growls_ is almost dizzying. His eyes are watering from the dust kicked up by Reaper’s claws, the scent of blood still so thick it’s oppressive, but Baptiste can’t even pretend this isn’t doing something for him too. If someone had fucked him like this after his first combat mission, he’d never have been content with heading back to a med-station.

Dark, viscous rivulets of blood might leak from somewhere behind his mask every time Reaper exhales, a nagging reminder that Baptiste had a job to do, but that hasn’t seemed to bother him yet either. It smears from his mask to Baptiste’s hair and drips down onto the side of his throat with a sluggishness that feels oddly like a caress. He’s never going to get Reaper’s blood out of all his gear - maybe not even off his skin - but for the moment Baptiste can’t bring himself to care. His knuckles brush against his own cock with every movement Reaper makes and his thighs are already trembling from the effort of trying to keep his footing, the urgency of his own rapidly approaching climax, but it isn’t until Reaper’s pace begins to falter that Baptiste fully lets himself give in to the sensation.

Reaper tears something else off his gear, the crunch of metal obscenely loud over the pulse pounding in Baptiste's ears. He wonders briefly what his deal is - if he’s that offended by the Talon tech or just can’t help himself - but then his hand is on Baptiste’s flank, freezing claw-tips followed by heated leather being forced into the tear in his suit. Baptiste shudders and swears, and from the way Reaper’s hips jolt against his Baptiste is pretty sure he likes that too.

He can’t bite back the noise he makes at the next too-fleeting press of Reaper’s thigh, but Reaper forces his hand back up against the wall before Baptiste can even think to cover his mouth. If he’d thought he was trapped before, Baptiste had clearly underestimated. Reaper’s grip tightens around his wrist like an iron shackle.

A part of him had always imagined his lack of self-preservatory instinct would do him in eventually, but never like this. There’s no blaming the thrill of being completely at Reaper’s mercy on good intentions.

Baptiste feels his cheeks go hot with the sounds that come out of his own mouth as he arches against Reaper, molten heat filling his gut. It’s definitely not his proudest moment, but fuck if it isn’t going to be embedded in his spank bank for the rest of forever. “ _Fuck_ -” he gasps, “don't stop,” all fear forgotten in favor of the throbbing in his balls and relentless crush of Reaper’s body against his. Straining desperately for that last little bit that’s going to push him over the edge.

Reaper’s thighs clench like a vise around his and Baptiste grinds down shamelessly. He’s coming before he can think better of it, seeing stars when his head collides with the brick behind them.

Reaper isn’t far behind. He rocks his hips up into Baptiste’s palm with a single-minded insistence, halting breaths taking on a new urgency. Baptiste has just enough sense left to tighten his grip and ignore the newly tacky chafe of his field gear until Reaper can finish chasing his own release.

The snarl Reaper makes as he stiffens and then finally stills sends shivers all the way down the back of his skull and into his toes. The fabric beneath his fingertips goes damp in a way that finally doesn’t remind Baptiste of drying blood, and even spent as he is, Baptiste feels his mouth water at the idea.

Slowly, Reaper’s hold on him relaxes. His heavy breathing quiets by fractions.

“Not the worst medic I’ve had,” he says before Baptiste can consider dropping to his knees, and it takes him far longer than it should have to pick out the grim amusement lurking in Reaper’s tone. “But run along.”

His coat twists up into smoke, hood blurring around the edges of his blood-stained mask. Baptiste watches him turn and he’s shocked to realize that all the burns and tears in Reaper’s armor are gone. Around them the bodies - resistance, omnic and Talon alike - lay twisted, shriveled and gray. Baptiste’s stomach clenches uneasily even before he can make sense of it.

He hadn’t even gotten his medkit open.

“ _I’m not done here_.”


End file.
